The Forgotten
by XinnLajgin
Summary: Sequel to Dark Kaneanite's "This was not in the job description" The BOD and Twisted are dead, but they will never rest in peace.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Yet another place my musi are dragging me by the short hairs. And with the permission of my good buddy DK I hope to exercise this particular demon. Disclaimer: I don't own any of this stuff and made no money from it. -Rei**

**Location: Holmström & Associates Offices New York, New York; year 2100

* * *

**

An albino woman dressed smartly in a dark suite that nearly covered every inch of her body stared at the seven people assembled before her. Each of the people seated at the board table in front of her represented roughly eight hundred years of history. Years defined by war, bloodshed, bigotry, rediscovery of self, selective breeding, and finally evolution. All this while she guarded them from the shadows, taking care to never interfere, less her charges be punished for her mistakes.

But the time for silence had passed and Edda Norns would speak for her as a modern, mortal woman. Though the truth of power was not lost on the group she was addressing, they have still yet to learn the full story. And those who had even the slightest inkling were long buried, burnt, or left to rot. "Ladies and gentlemen of Holmströmand associates, all descendents of the original Glemete, believe me when I say this from the bottom of my heart." Her English was clipped and precise with the awkwardness of a language not her own.

Though some of the words in English were borrowed from her native language, and some of it had the same structuring, she found it no easier to be without the particularities of her own lost culture. It was only now looking at the latest generations of a bitter and blindly furious progeny that the former priestess began to realize that all that was hers was gone. Like her fallen lover she had clung too tightly to a world dying around her. But unlike the man she once loved, Edda lived to see it razed to the ground with only the dregs left behind to haunt the shadows.

Looking directly into the eyes of her direct descendant by her first lover, Erik Holmström, Edda was painfully reminded once more of a simpler time, a time when she was a mother. The child before her now was of his ancestor's likeness in almost every way. Dark blond hair, even darker blue eyes, tall and yet somehow still managing to be brawny in the shoulders and pectoral area. And he took after the fallen mortal in more than his looks; he had his passion as well. Edda took a deep breath calming nerves she never remembered having. "You are all, fucking morons!"

* * *

**Council of Asatru: Location unknown, 13****th**** century A.D. year unknown **

Twenty four high seats of solid oak stood in silent prominence around a sunken dirt floor. An altar at the center of the circle was made of solid stone and carved with protective runes on its reflective surface. Thick water sealant treated calf hide guarded the otherwise fragile thrones from the moisture latent air. They were well maintained and with good cause. They belonged to the councils of Odin and Frigga, as a symbol of their authority here in Midgard. These seats of power were only to be occupied at the gravest of times, when not even the sacrifice of life, either willing or unwilling could be heard by the gods.

By which case there would be no other choice, twelve elder Volvas and twelve elder Druids would be called upon to sit in the mortal thrones of their gods, and risk their very souls to seek aid. "Hark, daughter of Verdande of the Norns. The son of Aun calls on you." The keeper who lived in this secret sacred cave glanced up from her silent musings. Orik, youngest son of the Swedish King had come. And with him, he brought those who would dare to call upon the Norse gods.

Each hooded individual would be the voice for the whole of their lands' many tribes. And while the 'rulers' of the isles of the north might not see the threat of the Roman Christians, those of the long learned did. Cruelty disguised as sophistication, constant war, and good intentions barbed in monstrous actions were nothing new to the Norse. But this resolve, the true belief that their destruction would bring about good, was terrifying. The wise ones and those taught by them had no answer to this new invasion, as lies, and death were spread in equal fanaticism across land and sea.

The fair prince of Sweden had not been raised in the hall of his father, and thus hadn't been corrupted by the Roman and their' new dead god. Aun, like most kings, was more concerned with the progeny that would succeed him, and thus the young prince was left to the care of the old ones. He saw the corruption where his father and brothers turned blinded and greedy eyes away from. The cave caretaker stood, and lowered her hood, unmindful of the raindrops quickly soaking her now exposed ashen mane.

And for the first time looked at the man that she had only heard about through the gossiping old woman from the village that usually came to give her food. Orik stood at eye level with her, which was surprising since she usually towered over even the tallest of her fellow Norwegian countrymen. The chainmail he wore over his thick wool shirt was minimal and well used, as was the battered looking boots on his feet and long spear in his hand.

The isolated woman did her best to ignore the rain soaked pants, and gold spun hair plastering the strong column of Orik's throat. Looking into the prince's eyes she was met with dark, nearly black indigo orbs peered out at her from under the protective covering of his helmet. It felt as if a stone had grew around her heart; it was fast becoming a battle to breathe. She silently prayed that he didn't notice the tremble in her hand as she drew an athame from her belt, a sacred dagger that has never spilt blood.

It was only long years of training that allowed her to ask the ritual question, "Hark callow prince, do you enter this sacred place of your own free will, in perfect love, and trust." Orik gazed back at her with keen eyes, he had noticed, and felt the answering pull in his gut. The nameless guardian was ethereally, gloriously, so beautifully pale. A fine featured, sharp boned creature that could easily pass a Skadi the winter queen herself. Leaning forward Orik kissed the blade without taking his eyes off of her, "I do."

Quickly stepping away, the maiden turned her attention to the druids and volvas that were charged under his care. Many were well passed what should have been their travel worthy years. And yet out of desperation bore strength, strength that would not see them through the return to their homes. She raised her athame above her head, "then enter; with this warning." Planting the knife in the ground at the prince's feet she moved back into the shelter of the only home she'd ever known. "It is better to rush upon this blade than to enter with fear in your hearts."

None of them hesitated; marching passed the knife and following her into the darkness of the cave fortress. But as Orik stared after the most forbidden woman in his culture, Erik a well respected druid of Sweden grasped his unoccupied arm, "she is not of our world Orik, nor any man's to call their own, avert your eyes, and cast your lust elsewhere." The hissed warning though not well received, was still heard and Orik did as he was told jerking his arm away from the frail grasp at the same time.

The other spiritual leaders paid the interaction no mind as they continued to follow their host, fascinated by the natural beauty that now surrounded them. The maiden didn't dare look back as she led her guest to the thrones of Æsir. And though it was almost pitch black, she needed no light to guide her steps as she entered the circular chamber housing her charge. Her visitors soon entered after her, the invoking chants sweet on their lips as she made to prepare this basin of power.

Orik kept well out of the way, knowing that while he could observe he could do nothing else. The pale woman immediately went to the altar at the center of the room, using a piece of calcium and emerald to set a thatch of sage in a bowl of a questionable substance. Quickly removing the fauna from the vessel she used it to light five candles. Burgundy for energy and rekindling, white for vision and protection, yellow for centering, purple for spirit, and black for authority; each necessary to call on the gods. Blowing out the sage she beckoned the druids and volvas forward.

"Come and be fasted." The eldest of them went first, a volva from Denmark. She lowered her soaked hood with shaking sun weathered hands. "Brigantia calls on Tyr lawgiver in this time of peril." Having invoked the gods name the elderly woman drank deep and quick droughts of the substance in the bowl. The guardian then smeared the still hot ashes of sage on her forehead and palms. Bowing as best as she could, the volva then sat in one of the thrones, the substance that she drank was already taking effect.

The process was quickly repeated with the other spiritual leaders, each invoking the presence of their patron deity to take part in this council. The Swedish prince watched as each of the forest priest took their place in the seats of power. Was both in awe and horrified as the druids and volvas very breathe was reduced to nothing more than a whisper, their bodies were now still and cold. And when finally the last of the twenty-four was enthroned, the pale mistress of the cavern stretched forth her hand to Orik, silently commanding him to join her at the altar.

The youngest son of Aun made sure to leave behind the majority the weapons on his person, only allowing himself the dagger on his belt. The dagger that was immediately taken upon entering the circle of thrones, the woman he was fast falling for despite warnings against it drew the sharp blade across her palm. Her blood easily spilt onto the floor, and once near pitch darkness became illuminated by a source-less light.

Or so he thought as Orik had to cover his eyes against the sudden brilliance. "**THIS COUNCIL IS CALLED TO ORDER; SPEAK YOUR PEACE DESCENDANT OF FREYR.**" All the pride in the world couldn't make any other man stand at hearing the sound of the booming voice, but Orik didn't have a choice. The survival of the Norse way of life depended on him. Taking a deep breath and calling on all the bravado due to him as a prince, the young Norseman got to his feet and tilted his chin upward. The light was still too bright for him to dare look beyond the suddenly finely clad torso of the immortal now sitting before him.

"Odin, all-father we humbly come before you now these dire times to seek aid which threatens all of the Norse. A dead god and his servants encroach upon your territory even as we speak." "**THINK YOU MORTAL, THAT WE ARE UNAWARE OF THE FALSE BELIEVERS?**" At this the hapless prince couldn't help but turn his head to look upon the one whom spoke. And nearly get blinded as he got his first look at Freya, goddess of love and queen of the Valkyries. The frowe was as beautiful as the legends said, golden haired and eyes so blue they were all but opaque. Garbed in armor of pure gold, Freya and her fabled familiar stared down on him with cold calculation.

And then her words finally sunk in, Orik shook with sick rage. He cast his gaze away from them all, his every breath becoming more labored than the last. "And you do nothing?" Once again Orik's blue orbs were irrevocably drawn upward, only this time to the pale beauty that was the priestess of the cave. Somehow she seemed all the more lofty in her rage. But all that passion was no match for the gods. "**SILENCE, YOU HAVE NO CONCEPT OF THE PATH OF LIFE CHILD, OUR TIME IS ENDING. THE DESTRUCTION OF YGGDRASIL IS NYE.**" The Norns spoke as one, and all knew that any decree by them was final. "No!" Orik shoot to his feet numb to anything save the shattering of the world around him.

And just as his hand reached for the knife that spilled the white lady's blood, he was frozen in his tracks, unable to move or comprehend beyond the single eyed all-father staring back at him. He didn't hear the priestess cry for his release, nor Frigga Odin's wife defend him, nor did he comprehend the other gods argue over his fate. All he could hear was the judgment placed upon him, "**Your obsession with the preservation of this life has led you to raise a hand against us, your gods whom you owe all fealties. Thus the payment in kind is this, you shall live to see all you know gone, all you loved reduced to nothing, and only when all light of hope is lost to you will you die. Forever more are you Glemete forever are you and yours forgotten by us."

* * *

**

'But the curse placed on Orik wasn't only for him.' Edda thought quite bitterly as she watched the CEO's of the company her descendant and Erik's great, great, great grandfather had founded create uproar. Erik was glaring confusingly at her, not sure what to make of the opposition against his plans. For a man used to getting his way, this was new and unwelcome territory. It was made even more-so because he had only had vague rumors of his cousin 'Edda' and her ilk, whom were said to be the most powerful of the families. 'Probably just doesn't want her family's power challenged,' he thought pragmatically.

The Norns scion slammed her hands on the Teague wood long desk meant to accommodate the eight people currently having it out. But the noise immediately shut them up, especially because of the sparks skittering across the table from Edda's finger tips. "Has the consequences of our forefathers taught us nothing? Are you all so desperate for power that you would actually consider the blasphemy you want as a viable solution?" Unabashed Rosalind Abramssen of the Faroe Islands spoke out, "do you not see? Our way of life has become corrupted; power and force are our only answer."

Edda swallowed the words that wanted to accompany the bile that burned a path up her delicate throat. Dryly she scoffed at them all. "I will have no part in this, no cause is worth this. You would rip innocent people from their eternal rest for what? For vengeance that is a good eight hundred years cold, on peoples whom you yourselves are a part of and have nothing to do with the destruction that wrought our existence? The burning in the cursed woman's throat migrated south heating the long fragile glass that was what was left of her broken her. She could feel the still healing fissures crack, and she knew that her time was nearing. 'But first I must help them Raelynn, Mark, and Kane, only then will I rest.'


	2. Let sleeping dogs lie

**Location: Skovgaard Residence in Upper Queens New York, year 2100 **

Leif Skovgaard regarded his fellow Glemete with practiced neutrality. The dissention that had occurred some hours ago had degenerated into something truly ugly, and in the Greenland native's opinion, something beneath all of them. On the one side, the Holmström scion, the direct descendant prince Orik himself called for the complete restoration of the old ways, ways that were diluted, forgotten, or just outright destroyed. A futilely impossible task for any but the Glemete, for the forgotten ones whom suffered with the knowledge of the destruction of all they knew. This hurt echoed throughout the generations and Leif was long used to the bitter aftertaste.

And like those whom stood before him now, Leif was sick of it. On the other side, the direct descendant of the half Norn whom had mediated between the prince and the gods, Edda vehemently opposed Erik's ambition. She thought that by forsaking the out-dated belief that the dead had any rights, it would be the same as forsaking all that the Glemete had fought and died for. In this view the reclusive Norwegian had made her choice, and in standing by their prince the rest of the Glemete had made theirs.

Yet in this there lie a great problem, which Halfdan the youngest amongst them was more than willing to point out. "We cannot do this without the power of the Norns." Night dark eyes swung the brunette's way with a half amused scowl. "You're right of course," the descendant of Swedish royalty said derisively, "so we won't." Not gulled in the least, the Finnish steel mogul lightly swirled his glass of champagne. "And how do you suppose that, if Edda will not go for this, then none of her ilk will."

Leif, Inghart, and Agathe silently agreed with him. Rosalind however would not stand for anyone to question the blonde's plans, "Your insolence- Erik raised a silencing hand, the family ring flashing conspicuously before them all. A not so subtle reminder of whom held power in this group, "his question is valid Rosalind." He reached down at his feet where his briefcase was, and unceremoniously threw it at the tapered face half grown youth. "Contrary to popular belief the Norns do not see all, their' descendants see even less."

* * *

**Location: House of Pain Diner; Las Vegas, Nevada **

She navigated the midnight diner with a disturbing ease, delicate hips swaying away from wandering hands and a factious grin easily sending empty apologies to the drunkard's grasp that she avoided. "Damn it Twitch, get dat fine ass of yer's over ere'." 'Twitch' didn't even glance up as she placed the latest order in front of the trucker she was serving. After four months of surviving on the streets of Las Vegas, and then managing to hold a job for two months here, Twitch had just barely mastered her habitual tick from which her nickname derived.

"Anyth'n else Mac? An so help meh, if you dare say you, I'm gonna use yer intestines to string ya sorry ass up a tree by yer balls." The diner's number one regular mock pouted, "Aw, come on beautiful why ya got to be so cruel?" The waitress purposefully rolled her eyes. Then turning, she once again ignored all pleads for her attention as she strode back to the bar and her boss. For an asshole bloated on his own ego, Doug was alright, or at least as far as Twitch was concerned. The proprietor of the little establishment she was currently employed didn't ask questions, and didn't try to screw her over. This is more than she could say for most of the people that passed through her life.

Setting her serving plate down in front of her boss, Twitch gripped the edge of the bar as she leaned forward. There wasn't any doubt whatsoever in her mind that whatever the fat man was about to say, Twitch definitely didn't want anyone else to hear. That is, if the grim expression on the portly man's face was anything to go by. "Couple suits rolled by today, day be look'n for a stray," intently watching the wheat haired nymph react, Doug scratched his goatee.

'Still needs work,' he thought wryly as the almost ridiculously tall girl had to visibly fight the tremble that she was named for. Twitch, despite her very discreet and often aloof nature wasn't very hard to figure out for those who knew what they were looking at. Doug knew damn well what he was looking at. Twitch was a fine boned thing; almost painfully so, making her cheek bones stand out in sharp relief under almost gray pallid skin. And all the color contacts in the world couldn't hide the absurd rate in which her eyes would dilate.

Twitch's twitching was another obvious give away. Even now his youngest waitress was hyper aware of her surroundings. He could see it in the way that her body would shift. Her eyes, while not quite relinquishing their hold on him, always managed to follow as she moved in minuscule increments. Somewhere along the line, this girl had been hurt and hurt badly. Good thing for her he always had a soft spot for strays. "Now parently' some nut from up north don scaped' the funny farm couple years back, now I want cha to watch ya self ye hear?"

"Yeah I hear ya," she paused, "thank ya for the concern Doug." The older man gave her small smile, letting her know without words that he understood what she was really trying to say. "Don't go be'n no ero' if ya find the girl Twitch, people like dat been stuck in a cage too long, and beat down too many times to be trifled with. Ya even think ye see er' ya run, ya don't look back, ya don't hide, just run." Twitch gulped visibly and nodded and ducked her head as she turned away. Yes, Douglas Delaney knew exactly what the hell he was looking at.

* * *

**Location: Moby Dick on Broadway **

Walter had no idea what his client wanted. Usually when his best costumer contacted him for his services, everything was discrete. No phone calls or couriers that could be traced to either of them, nor had they ever met face to face. But it seems, good things can never last for long. He fought the urge to take out the blue tooth on his ear, and leave. "It's nice to finally see you in person Mr. Walter." The strong arm for hire fought against his knee jerk reaction of violence. "I wish I could say the same Ma'm."

"Three rows down, I am the woman in the pink hood." Slyly scanning the crowd the clean cut mercenary immediately spotted the ghostly beauty seated very close to the front. Edda Norn wasn't as old as he expected, instead she seemed to him in her late twenties at best. And yet she looked so frail on the outside, but Walter could see the raw strength that was also there. "It's nice to finally meet you in person Ma'm. Now, why the fuck am I here." He could see a ghost of a smile flit across the woman's lips, "I have a project for you, eight figure contract. A simple yes or no now will suffice."


	3. Running for it

**Location: Las Vegas, Nevada year 2100**

It was after her shift at the House of pain diner, and Twitch had to walk home. It wasn't far and the neighborhood was relatively safe, but the young waitress still felt uneasy. Doug's warning from a few days ago was an icy mockery tap dancing to the tune of her insecurities. Street lamps glowed under the pitch black of the night sky, as the hustle and bustle of a balmy Las Vegas night filled the runaway's senses. Bonny hands gripped the strap of her messenger bag every time a rowdy group of drunken tourists passed her by.

Normal night sounds associated with big city's instantly morphed into something from her nightmares. It was as if all her preparations for the eventuality that she might be found meant nothing. Her own family had called her crazy, and would love nothing more than to see her locked away and forgotten. The doctors that had been her jailers would use her in whatever capacity they deemed. "Get a grip girl, it ain't noth'n," she told herself, passing by a black pit of an alley. It only made the impending panic worse.

Ducking her head, the black haired woman power walked the rest of the way to the motel she was staying at. Only to be stopped by the horrifying sight that greeted her as she stepped foot just down the street from the Singleton Motel. Wooden barricades surrounded the entrance of her temporary home, with various cops, reporters, and spectators milling around the immediate area. And it was all the petite woman could do to force herself to breath; she needed to get away and now. Forcibly inhaling and slowly uncurling her fingers, Twitch moved toward the spectators in front of the barricade. "Excuse me," she called to the nearest one, "do you know what happened here?"

A craggily old woman answered her readily enough, "yeah they say'n some whack job snapped and killed the manager of this place." Twitch's hands began to shake as she stuttered out her thanks to the elder. Glancing around, she could see the wanted posters already being put up, or handed out by the beat cops. Hunching slightly forward so that the bangs of her wig covered her face, Twitch kept walking. It was time to run again.

* * *

**Location: Unknown year 2100**

"What happened?"And not for the first time, Erik Holmström's 'project manager' wished he could give an equally simple answer. Barton Defoe was an efficient perfectionist. He took pride and dignity in all his doings, and held little to no qualms about doing anything to get the job done. This particular assignment was made all the more frustrating by there being too many variables to control and no way to manipulate the situation completely in his favor. He had just returned a few hours ago from his mission to Vegas, he had just found a lead on his target, only for it to go south when man he had question on the girl's whereabouts had started to get greedy.

"The girl was smart sir, the manager didn't ask questions because she always paid in cash, and what little tracks she did leave behind was infinitesimal." His employer's glare told him exactly how much trouble he would be in if he wasn't so good at his job. "And yet you still executed the motel proprietor, knowing that it would call more attention that we do not want." Agathe Bentsen scowled severely at the man whom had failed more than he would truly ever know. If the unknowing key to their' victory went to jail they would most likely lose all chance of recovering her.

Barton bit his tongue against the scathing retort that precariously hung heavy on his lips. "Money talks Ma'm, your query paid that man for information on a regular basis. She would have run before I could acquire her." "She has run, yet you don't have the girl, and now the authorities are after her." Rosalind curled her lip in mild contempt at her perceived rival in Erik's approval. Barton ignored her, the sandy haired gold digger with what little remained of his self control. "I have ordered that the vessels to be moved the origin site, as soon as I acquire the girl, I will personally escort her there." For a moment Erik just stared at him with a searching gaze, "get it done." Barton internally relaxed.

* * *

**Location: ** **Amtrak California motor coach depot; Las Vegas Nevada**

Twitch was still fighting the almost undeniable urge to start freaking out as she made her way to the locker storage that held her preplanned 'care package.' She had already changed her appearance just enough to remain inconspicuous. Her black baby doll styled wig was replaced with a long brunette one covered with a beanie. Color contacts were taken out and instead Twitch opted to wear thick glasses meant obscure the color of her eyes. But the fact remained that once again the young woman had to start afresh once more. Twitch the waitress living in at a shitty motel in Las Vegas could no longer exist, just as the twelve year old girl who was sent to an insane asylum could no longer exist. But the memories wouldn't let Twitch go.

_The year was 2095 and a young girl smoothly rushed upstairs to her bedroom in her parents Tennessee home, locking her door and thus insuring that her usual roommate wouldn't be able to disturb her. Her name was Valentina Whispers and she was twelve years old. And for the past year the youngest daughter of Andrew and Georgia Whispers has been having nightmares. Debilitating nightmares, so vivid and so disruptive to the child's resting hours that it began to affect her waking life in the most detrimental ways. In her dreams Valentina was always fighting, fighting against people whom scared her on the most fundamental level._

_She dreamed of cages and dark dank places, being beat so badly that whomever she was fighting was able to place her in a coffin. Faces morphed before big eyes, each more different than the last, but all held hatred in their gaze as they squared off against a frightened little girl. She had dreamed of being hit with all manner of things, chairs, stairs, pipes, and even trashcans. But worst of all she dreamed of fire. In her dreams Valentina lived out being burnt alive, over and over again. And through it all there was two constants. The man with red hair and the man with eyes like hers. _

_The child was skin and bones from lack of appetite, her grades, and social skills suffered severely at school. Yet every doctor that she was taken to said that there was nothing physically wrong with her. The psychologist that her parents forced her to see always wanted her to relive the horrors of her dreams. Apparently talking about the pain makes it go away. Valentina threw her ratty book bag at the door she just locked, ignoring her parents and sister banging on the door. After the latest episode of malicious teasing she had to endure, the youngest Whispers wanted to be left alone. _

"_Open this door young lady; we're going to have a discussion about your behavior!"Angry tears flowed easily from pale jeweled eyes. The slightly off colored orbs only added fuel to the fire of the incessant rumors about the odd girl whom was mostly regarded as a nutcase. The Whispers were well known in this small town, they had been there for three generations. And all three generations had dark hair and dark eyes. Valentina had neither. This was all the evidence the townsfolk needed, now her 'problems' could be blamed on questionable breeding._

_The adults gossiped freely on the subject when they thought none of the Whispers would hear. Suddenly Valentina was the rape baby of a bi-polar serial killer left on the Whispers doorstep, Georgia's love child by a stoner in college, or even the offspring of a Satan worshiper. Whatever was said, the end result was always the same, Valentina was worse off for it. The parents of the children she went to school with kept their progeny away from her, Adults outside of her family treated her with pity or disgust, and the few people she did have any contact with didn't understand. _

_Even her parents didn't seem to grasp that their child was slowly dying from their' need to fix her. Pitching herself onto the cool sheets of her bed, Valentina curled up in on herself, and covered her ears, "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The youngest of four wasn't surprised in the least when the threats and pleads on the other side of the door became more persistent. Once upon a time Valentina might have cared, but right now all the frail girl could think about was crying herself to sleep._

Twitch walked just a touch faster toward the rent-a-lockers at the end of the bus depot. And plowed into a police officer handing out wanted posters, "oh I'm so sorry," she began to help him pick up the posters. The runaway knew that if she just left then it would look suspicious, right now she couldn't afford anyone looking too closely at her. "It's alright, miss." Twitch glanced nervously at the cop.

The man was perhaps a good decade older than her, placing the young officer in his late twenties early thirties. He looked as awkward in his uniform as Twitch felt watching him. He was obviously new to the force and just developing the senses that were the hallmark of cops. Casting her gaze to the pictures that she was helping pick up, the Tennessee looked into the eyes of her thirteen year old self in the last picture ever taken of her.

_It was the one year anniversary of Valentina Whispers commitment to Tennessee State Sanitarium, and assistant therapist Dr. Felix Hardy sat behind his office desk. He wasn't one hundred percent sure that his young patient belonged here. The only serious symptom that she had shown was nightmares. All the little blonde's other behaviors could be explained from that. But whatever argument he came up with was dismissed by the head therapist._

_And as a result the Whispers couple sat before him now on the pretense that it would help in their daughter's recovery if she saw them. 'Not a complete lie, at least.' The child psychologist thought with just the barest twinge of guilt. "How is Valentina doing doctor, really?" Felix turned his attention to Georgia Whispers ne Johnson. And just by looking at the woman, it was clear that Valentina didn't take after her mother in any way. Georgia was a curvy woman of Pacific Islander descent. Her dark eyes and thick black hair was a clear departure from the blood spun gold of her daughter's tresses. "Valentina is doing surprisingly well. I feel there is clear progress in her behavior, and her ability to cope."_

_His client's father scoffed, "don't deny that there is still something seriously wrong with that child. We know she still has nightmares, she said as much earlier. I don't want my kid screaming at shit that isn't there Hardy, so give to us straight. How much longer do we have to wait for her to get better, if at all?" Georgia gasped in horror at her husband, offended on her youngest behalf, and yet at the same time Felix could clearly discern she was in agreement with him._

_Andrew like his wife looked nothing like his daughter. Though the man was clearly Caucasian, he was healthily robust in a way only a lifetime spent on a working farm could give. This included a healthy tan Valentina would never be able to have, on the principle that she burned too easily in the sun. All in all, the Whispers patriarch fit the bill of hard working middle class family man a little too well. Being subtle wouldn't work with the man. Felix felt trapped because offending Valentina's father could have catastrophic repercussions for the thirteen year old._

_But saying nothing was guaranteed to have a more destructive outcome. Daringly the psychologist leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. "If we are going to be frank here Mr. and Mrs. Whisper, then I must say with the utmost respect to yours, and your daughter's position, that the only thing keeping her here is you." "WHAT!" Even if the response wasn't unexpected it still hurt Felix's ear drums. "Valentina is a very articulate, intelligent, and shy child. It is not the nightmares themselves that causes her distress. It is the response of others to her nightmares."_

_Andrew's posture stiffed, as he scooted forward and glared. "And how are we supposed to react when our eleven year old little girl wakes up one day, and tells us she's buried somebody alive."The buff man all but snarled. Georgia placed a calming hand on her husband's shoulder. "This went on for a year before we started look'n for help doctor, don't you understand? This is better for Valentina. Dr. Bearer said that she might not ever completely recover, are you saying he was lying."_

_Felix wanted to curl his lip in fury laced disgust. "With all due respect Mrs. Whispers Dr. Bearer is operating with the same blinders as you and your husband, and from what Valentina tells me the entirety of your community." The child psychologist cut the parents before they could say anything in retort. "You and everyone around you have hammered into this girl's brain that there is something wrong with her, she has not had one person in her life that has told her otherwise." But as Felix continued to argue with the Whispers, they didn't know that the subject of their argument was listening in. And in the young girl's mind, her parents didn't want her anymore. _


End file.
